Annabel saw him from the window and beckoned him in, her face all smiles of welcome, and that helped him to retain his composure.
“Come right in, sir,” said Fanny, the maid who admitted him. “Miss Annabel’s not allowed to go to the door yet.”
“Hello, Will,” said the girl, shyly slipping her hand in his. “I’m awful glad you’ve come for everybody has gone out and left me today.”
“Why, Nan, how white you look!” he exclaimed. “That water in the pond must have been pretty cold for you.”
“No more than for you, Will,” she replied. “But it wasn’t the cold, you know; ’twas the awful fear of dying—of being drowned and lost under the ice,” and she looked at him with big eyes into which a shade of fear crept at the very recollection of that dreadful moment.
“There, there, Nan,” said he, soothingly; “let’s sit down and talk about something else,” and he led her to a sofa, still holding her small white hand in his brown one.
The girl glanced at him gratefully. Will seemed to understand her even better than Mary Louise did; and he had a gentle way with her that was at once pleasant and comforting.
“Where did the folks go?” he asked, with well assumed cheerfulness.
“Out coasting. The hill back of Thompson’s is just fine, now—as smooth as glass, Ted says. I’d like to be with them, for my sled’s the swiftest of them all; but,” with a sigh, “Doctor Meigs says I must stay in the house for three days. Isn’t it dreadful, Will?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Nan. He’s usually right about these things; and it seems mighty pleasant in here,” glancing around at the cozy room with its glowing fire in the grate.